At the center of my memory is the image of a horse, a horse the color of orange cream, rearing up, and glancing at me, with an oceanic glint in her eye. She has wings. She has fins. She is fast. I remember. She was fast. Slicing through the water like a ray of sunlight.
So I don’t know how it could have happened. But I have to do something.
I must free the hippocampus.
Read More The Hippocampus and the MenagerieWhen pigs fly
“Obviously, it’s a hoax,” Rita said, switching out the microphone cover for that furry one that she used when they went somewhere windy. “But can you imagine if it were real? I mean what would it mean?”
Quentin sighed. “It would mean that Nature herself is against my ever getting a real shot at doing real journalism.”
“So, pigs can fly and somehow that’s all about you, huh?”
Read More Seven Signs of Impossible TimesI twisted my mouth to one side, and stared at the coin that I held in the middle of my palm.
Read More A Wish Upon the Fountain FishContent copy disabled for this page
